Chaos Theory
by Q. Magpie
Summary: When Ada Mendelssohn moves to New York to turn over a new leaf after her divorce, she falls in with the stillunderground mutant community, and it's gathering strength. Her escapades with ringleaders Charles Xavier, and especially Erik Lensherr.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

When Ada Mendelssohn was 12 years old, things started _growing_. At first, it was just plants. She would wake up to discover that her garden was a jungle, or her bean plant, Beanie, had sprouted into a Giant Beanstalk, or her mother's rosebush was flattened by buds the size of beach balls. Soon, however, she learned that her talent extended to hair (when her Grandfather tripped over his beard, twelve feet long and counting, and fractured his hip), to small animals (who became big animals within minutes), and to bread dough (her Montreal neighbourhood boasted the World's Largest Pizza record for five years).

When Ada Mendelssohn was 22 years old, things _stopped_ growing. Puberty would have been difficult enough without eyebrows that required hourly trimmings, so it has a relief to discover that with a little concentration, she could control the effects of what she was swiftly beginning to consider her 'power'. Ada had married Ezra Zimmerman at 21, and eight months later, their marriage was already on the rocks. Bryce, Ada's best friend from CEGEP, had set them up in their third semester at McGill. Three weeks later, they were an item. Ezra was a true mathematical whiz-kid, a restaurant connoisseur, a compulsive nail–bitter (but his nails never got short, not after he started dating Ada, anyway), and a casual free-lance journalist, and Ada loved every bony, pasty inch of him. After University, they had traveled together around South America, where Ezra had proposed one early morning under a balmy Chilean sky. It was too good to last, and when the wild romance of youth gave way to the harsh realities of real life, Ada and Ezra were forced to admit that maybe they just weren't well matched. Cliché, perhaps, but sometimes, that's life. Ada watched Ezra dejectedly as he moved box after box of his Marvel Comics out of their Côte-St-Luc apartment, thinking of how her short life had been a failure from start to finish.

When Ada Mendelssohn-Zimmerman was 32 years old, her picnic lunch in Central Park was interrupted by a childlike shriek. A boy, climbing a tree while his mother was minding his baby sister, had foolhardily edged his way onto a rotting bough, and was now hanging on for dear life, too scared to budge. Ada sighed, wiped her egg-salad fingers on a paper napkin, and called up "Hang, on, kid, I'll get you down". She got him down. The bough grew, ten, twenty, thirty feet into the ground, forming a slide, and oh, he slid. A crowd of onlookers applauded when the boy's feet touched down, but despite his mother's tearful gratitude, Ada knew the meaning of the furtive look she shot her as she led her kiddies home. _She thinks I'm a freak, too. Oh, well._ And that was that. Except it wasn't. By using her power to save someone's life, Ada had unwittingly drawn the attention of the still-underground New York mutant community. When Ada Mendelssohn-Zimmerman was 32 years old, she met Eric Lensherr for the first time – and that's when everything went to hell, more or less.

Obligatory Disclaimer: The X-Men Universe doesn't belong to me in any way. Ada Mendelssohn belongs only to herself, and her tabby cat, Clement.


	2. Scavenger Hunt

**Scavenger Hunt**

Ada Mendelssohn mimed the closing piano chords of _They Can't Take That Away From Me_ as soulfully as she was able. What with all the stares she had attracted after saving the boy in the tree, Ada had found it impossible to finish her picnic lunch. Instead, she had grabbed an apple danish at her favourite bakery to eat on the way back to her New York apartment (purchased sometime between paying off student loans and being hired by Columbia University).

After her divorce, she had followed her BA in Hispanic Studies with an MA in Spanish Literature. Ada's job, lecturing part-time to undergraduates, was a dream come true, although the pay was undependable at best. To make ends meet, she had had to get a second job at Charley's Chicken Chill-out, and as a full-time, faculty appointment at Columbia depended on (a) the retirement (or death) of one of her seemingly ageless colleagues in the department of Hispanic History and Culture, and (b) the completion of an as of yet unbegun PhD, Ada looked forward to at least another decade of "Welcome to Charley's Chicken Chill-out! What, my charming chap, might your choice of Charley's chicken be?"

In the meantime, there was always Saturday afternoon, lazy hours of books and magazines, Fred Astaire, sweet, steaming tea, and Clement, her orange tabby cat. Ada had returned home to a luxurious shower, pajamas, and such indulgences as only Saturday can afford.

It was as Ada polished off her tea that the Voice – grave, resonating, like the very voice of God – echoed in her head. "Ada Mendelssohn," it intonated (voices say things, Voices only intonate them). _My God_, Ada panicked. _I don't even believe in God. . .Oh God! Please, forgive me! _When the Voice spoke again, Ada expected it to ask her to gather animals two by two, or sacrifice her only son (_I don't have any kids_ _– Clement!_ Ada clutched compulsively at the orange fur ball in her lap), or lead her people out of Egypt into the Promised Land. It said none of these things, but the Voice did have a task for Ada. It said: "Go buy a Knish".

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"I take it that there can be no doubt that this is the tree?" Erik Lensherr allowed a note of sarcasm to enter his velvety voice. It was a crisp, cool day in Central Park, teetering on the cusp between autumn and winter. The tree in question (now a favourite jungle gym of New York's monkey-bar classes) was so grotesquely distorted, one of its upper boughs trailing onto the ground and into the earth, that indeed, there could be no doubt.

"Don't sulk, Erik, it's unbecoming," Charles Xavier said amiably. "Indeed, it would appear that once again I was right, and you were wrong. . .for having mocked me, that is." Immaculate in pinstriped blue, he gazed serenely up at the pale afternoon sky.

Charles' fork had dropped from his slack hand when, in the middle of lunch, he had felt her on the periphery of his mental radar. "Erik. . .We're needed in Central Park." He had said faintly.

Erik Lensherr knew better than to ask questions. He knew better, but that had never stopped him in the past, and it wasn't about to start stopping him now.

"What's at Central Park? In the mood to feed the ducks, are we?" As dearly as he loved him, Erik couldn't suppress a twinge of exasperation at yet another of Charles' enigmatic outbursts.

"Erik, while I understand your need to be periodically soothed, I must, on this occasion, insist on action now, questions later." Thus, once on their way to Central Park, Charles had explained about Ada Mendelssohn, about her power, about her picnic, about the boy, about the tree.

Now nearly an hour later, Charles and Erik stood pondering the deformed tree in question. "Don't you find it curious that you never detected her prior to today?" Erik turned to look at his friend from under the brim of his Fedora.

"Not particularly," Charles replied after a time. "You see, I doubt whether Ada uses her power very often. Like many mutant children, she was probably taught, by frightened parents, to be ashamed of it all her life. Consequently, the great surge of energy required to do this," Charles scarcely needed to point out the tree, "was probably the first detectable manifestation of power on her part in a very, very long time. One thing, however, is clear," Charles looked pensively at the tree. "If _we_ have detected Ada, and indeed we have, we can be fairly certain that so have _they_."

"Then we had best get to her quickly," Erik said, still regarding Charles from beneath the brim of his hat, "unless we want her to disappear into one of their laboratories never to be seen or heard from again. . .like so many before her."

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_A Knish? Not to question your –that is, _thy_ – infinitely great and mysterious universal plan, O God, but. . .a Knish?!_ A commotion in the apartment below sent Ada flying out her door. Cautiously she tip-toed, stocking-footed, to the banister and leaned over to see five leather-clad men, all armed, pounding on #271, Mrs. Moore's, door.

"Mrs. Zimmerman, you shall receive no further warnings. Open this door, or we will enter by force."

_Okay_, Ada prayed fervently, shooting back into her apartment, out the window and down the fire escape. _Knish it is_.

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Charles Xavier reached out with his mind, and a thousand voices filled his head. He gave them a cursory scan, until his thoughts brushed a small woman, alone at home in her pajamas, reading _El otoño del patriarca_, tabby cat in her lap. She looked to be in her early- to mid-thirties, petite, with dark curly hair down to her shoulders, deep set eyes and a prominent nose. Ada Mendelssohn was enjoying a lazy Saturday afternoon, oblivious to the armed contingent drawing ever closer to her apartment building. Sometimes, if you want something done right. . .Charles focused his energies, and spoke into her mind: "Ada Mendessohn. . ."

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"I'm so sorry, Mademoiselle, but we don't sell Knishes here." Ada was aware of people gawking at her at _Patisserie Laframboise_. It might have been because in her haste to flee her apartment, she had thrown her winter jacket over her Loony Toons pajamas, and shoved her feet into the two closest shoes, a yellow rain boot and a monogrammed slipper from _Hotel Continental_. It might have been because Clement, stuffed unceremoniously down the front of her coat, was squirming and mewing and scratching her neck. It might have been her fervent, almost rabid insistence that _Patisserie Laframboise_ sell her a Knish. In any case, Ada didn't really care. She had bigger fish to fry. There were men with guns (whom Ada had decided were probably either KGB, or Mafia) in her apartment building. God was angry with her. Clement wanted his supper. It was Knish or bust.

"You might try a street vendor," the guy behind the counter gestured out the window. Not in living memory had Andy, vendor of roast peanuts, pretzels, and kebabs of ambiguous meat, been known to sell a Knish. However, Ada was unsurprised when today, he had decided to enter the lucrative business of Knish retail.

"There you are, lovey, one potato Knish, piping hot," Andy flashed Ada his golden grin. Clement mewed piteously as Ada accepted the pastry and a bunch of paper napkins from Andy. Ada was about to sink her teeth into her hard-earned pastry, when some untidy scrawl on one of the napkins caught her eye.

_You are in grave danger. Find a Pollock._ Ada glanced suspiciously at Andy, who wiggled his eyebrows flirtatiously. _Hmm. . .tricky. Burning bushes, I've heard of, but paper napkins? Either God's mysterious ways are more mysterious than I know, or. . .or what?_ Ada chewed thoughtfully on her Knish, wandering automatically in the direction of the subway. _Maybe God's in a spy movie kind of mood. More likely I've got a napkin-admirer. . .or napkin-hero. Napkin-Man. Humph. Faster than a speeding. . .paper-napkin-plane. . .thing._ All the while a voice (not a Voice, a voice) whispered at the back of Ada's head, _Those leather-gun-guys were after you. And face it, Cinder-slippers, you can use all the help you can get._

Ada halted suddenly, and sat down on a public bench to think. _Find a Pollock_, the napkin read. _What's a Pollock? Is it some kind of weapon? Maybe it's a. . .a code name for the police. Go find Officer Pollock, Ada. Pollock, Pollock. . .if only I could remember. . ._

"Excuse me, m'am." Ada's reverie was interrupted by a college kid, handing out flyers.

"What's this?" she asked, frowning slightly.

"Exhibition at the MoMA, m'am, closes Wednesday. I wouldn't miss it," and Ada was alone again. But now she had her lead. Glancing quickly at the address on the flyer, Ada strode towards the subway entrance with a renewed sense of purpose, yellow rain boot squelching and slipper flapping proudly. _The Museum of Modern Art – Jackson Pollock, of course! It's official – I'm the most absent-minded professor in _history

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Charles Xavier slumped in his red leather high-back swivel chair. Telepathic communication over long distances was more exhausting than anyone knew. "Anyone" apparently included Erik. "Well?" Erik stomped around restlessly.

" 'Well' what?"

"Aren't we going to go get Ada Mendelssohn, Charles? Or would you rather dawdle around here a while longer, hoping fervently that under that bumbling academic exterior, she's in fact a ninja?"

Charles sighed in resignation. _Erik, my insufferable friend, patience has never been one of your virtues._ "What, at her apartment? Much too dangerous. For one thing, they probably know where she lives; by the time we get there, they'll have ransacked the place, kidnapped the girl, and we'll be back where we started. For another, I'd rather not risk our lives, on top of hers; to go to Ada Mendelssohn's apartment is to rush directly into their line of fire. No. I know how waiting infuriates you, Erik, but I've sent her to Andy. He'll take care of her. In the meantime, I have. . .other matters to attend to, and so do you."

Erik frowned pensively, looking intently at his friend. "I suppose now's as good a time as any to see whether the Network are ready."

"Oh, I suspect they are," Charles said distractedly, "God knows they've trained long enough."

"So will she need picking up, I suppose?"

"Yes. And it's your turn."

"Very well," Erik grumbled, flicking an imaginary dust bunny from his lapel, "but this time we fly."

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Ada emerged panting from the subway twenty minutes later, and sped up the MoMA steps. She felt elated and hysterical, all at once; it was all so much like a game, a great big grown-up hide-and-seek, but who she was hiding from, why she was sought, and what she had to loose if she was found were all a mystery. The sun was low in the sky when Ada finally found her Pollock in the white and glass labyrinth that was the MoMA. The Knish was long gone, eaten, digested, but Clement grew ever hungrier, and threatened at any moment to squirm from her clutches.

"I'm sorry, m'am, but you'll have to leave. You're not allowed animals in here," a security guard shot Clement a disapproving look. "Please follow me." It wasn't just that the security guard grabbed Ada's arm in a vice-grip, steering her down, down, down the many stairs to the foyer. It wasn't just that he shot furtive glances behind him as he quickened his pace to a trot, then to a jog. It wasn't just that four leather-clad men stood waiting at the top of the MoMA steps. It was that Clement hadn't eaten since that morning, and Clement doesn't just get hungry – he gets mad.

Looking back on that fateful day, Ada could almost sort out the sequence of events that followed. It was Clement who made the first move, hissing and scratching and biting, true feline fighter that he was, penchant for pate and long naps on piles of paperwork notwithstanding. He pounced on the security guard, who made what was to be the unluckiest (or luckiest, depending on how you look at it) mistake of his career. _He let go of Ada's arm._

Ada had never been an athlete – she had never played sports with her older brother, she had never been on the high school hockey team, she had never run a marathon, she had never joined her friends on ski trips. Ada was an athlete that day – she ran as quickly as her stubby legs could carry her, she dove back into the museum, nearly knocking over a sculpture, flying past painting after painting, brilliant shocks of colour flashing by. It didn't take long for the security guard to put Clement in his place, and he and the leather-clads were soon in hot pursuit. Ada dared to glance over her shoulder, and discovered to her horror that they were gaining. She was out of breath, she had a stitch in her side, her feet were beginning to ache – and she could really feel that Knish. Still she ran. Still they gained, closer and closer. . .

The floor shook. Ada and her pursuers slowed slightly, looking around anxiously. A stainless-steel instillation piece (of Ada didn't know what – she'd always had trouble with modern art) flew across the room and knocked a leather-clad out cold. Ada took that as her cue to speed up. She ran – smack into a tour-guide.

"We're closing in thirty, m'am, I'd wrap up my visit." Ada wanted to scream – now was not the time for personal artistic enrichment! The tour-guide, a small, stout lady with curly blond hair and excessive rouge, was the only person in the MoMA not panicking. In fact, she was still distributing glossy museum-brochures.

"Are you out of your – " Ada started to say. The tour guide interrupted, softly but firmly under her breath.

"There's an 'Employees Only' exit down the hall, to your left. And for heaven's sake, _take a brochure_."

Ada closed the distance between herself and the exit at a sprint, brochure in hand, slammed the door behind her, slid down the banister, and vanished into a darkened alleyway behind the Museum. It was so good to breathe the fresh, cold air, and Ada gasped it in gulps. _This morning_, Ada thought savagely, collecting herself, _I was Ada Mendelssohn, Spanish literary scholar, and proud owner of Clement, the world's fattest tabby. Now, I am officially James Bond, and more than that, Clement is gone, the KGB are after me, and I am so very, very cold._ Ada clutched her winter jacket around her body and shuddered. Cliché, perhaps, but sometimes, that's life. _And is it my imagination, or were that tour guide's eyes yellow? Pink-eye, I've heard of, but yellow?_

Twilight was giving way to the inky indigo of dusk. Ada had planned to meet her colleague, Tony Spencer, for drinks that evening. She had meant to while away the afternoon with Clement, eat, shower, get gussied up at a leisurely pace, arrive five minutes early, and prepare mentally to shoot Tony the World's Most Beguiling Smile when he arrived. _He'll think I stood him up. He'll call my apartment, and get the machine. And I still haven't recorded a message._ After all the events of the day, perhaps it's strange that it was this thought that made Ada cry. She would have stood in the alleyway in her Loony Toons PJs and cried all night long if she hadn't remembered the brochure. Wiping her nose on her sleeve, Ada reached into her pocket, uncrumpled the brochure, and read by the light a street-lamp.

_You need a subway ticket. P.S. Third time's a charm._

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Erik Lensherr unzipped the white dry-cleaning bag in which his one tuxedo had resided since. . . _Since my wedding day_. It had been many years since Erik had ceased to feel anything more than a twinge of regret, a moment of luxurious sorrow, at the thought of dear Magda, long dead. Erik was unable to suppress a grimace at the sight of the mustily pretentious old suit. _Too much? Indubitably. Maybe without the bowtie. . ._Erik held the tux up in front of himself and looked critically at his reflection. _Erik Lensherr, you're not as young as you used to be_. Erik had never entirely understood that expression. It was virtually meaningless, because regardless of who it was said by, and when it was said, it was always true. _But you still clean up. . .pretty bloody well._

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"One adult subway ticket please," Ada said, sliding her money through the opening in the plastic barrier. The man behind the barrier grunted, regarding her warily. _Third time's a charm_, Ada reflected, _is in reference to _clues_. There was the Knish, that's one, the Pollock, two, and three_. . .

"Here's your ticket, m'am." Ada smiled as she accepted her ticket, fed it through the turnstile, and descended into the subway. She smiled because the man behind the barrier had given her not one ticket, but two – and the second was for the Metropolitan Opera. When she was 16 years old, Ada's mother had taken her to see Verdi's _Don Carlo_ at Place des Arts. Now 16 years older, Ada clutched at her ticket to see _Die Zauberflöte_ as though it was made of gold. Someone had penned in, on the back of the ticket, the following miniscule scrawl: _One of two seats reserved for Dominic Waldgrave. _The giant subway clock struck the quarter hour. 7:45. Ada quickly checked her ticket; _Die Zauberflöte _began at 8:30. _Die Zauberflöte. The Magic Flute. Third time's a charm. Oh. Ha, ha. I get it. _

Like anyone who has ever looked the Metropolitan Opera House in the eye, Ada Mendelssohn was entirely seduced. Under a canopy of stars the façade, an elegant white arcade, stood bathed in light. Shimmering water splashed from the giddy fountain in the square, reflecting the architecture, the opera-goers, and the light of the moon. Ada entered through the main doors, surrounded by the twinkle of diamonds, the tinkle of laughter, and the buzz of pre-show jitters of excitement. With the exception of the well-groomed young man who accepted her ticked, nobody paid any attention to Ada's untraditional opera attire (something to be grateful for, anyway). In those glorious moments before curtain, self-indulgence was all-consuming.

The sound of the orchestra tuning piqued Ada's anticipation as she took her seat. A young couple, apparently engrossed in their conversation, sat to the right of her. Ada flipped self-consciously through her program, tried to read a condensed biography of Mozart, gave up, looked at all the pictures, then all the ads, twice, and still the lights had not begun to dim.

"I _do_ love Mozart," gushed the middle-aged man to the left of her, apparently to the world at large. Ada turned to look at him for the first time. He looked to be about mid-forties, his dark hair graying at the temples, a latticework of fine lines surrounding his mouth. It was a soft, eloquent mouth, offset by a hard, aristocratic profile, and large blue eyes, glittering with intelligence, or anticipation. He wore a tuxedo, old fashioned, spotlessly black, with no tie, and (Ada suppressed a snort of mirth), purple socks. He sat with one of his legs draped with foppish elegance over the other; his expressive white hands hanging over the ends of the armrests. Ada bushed deeply when he caught her looking. "Don't you?" he smiled playfully at her.

"Er. . .yes," she replied feebly, "Very much."

He had a delicious, velvety chuckle. "I love Mozart _nearly_ as much as Wagner," he continued conversationally, "and rather more than. . ._Mendelssohn_," he continued to grin mischievously, but Ada was sure she saw a different expression come into his eyes. She leaned in conspiratorially.

"Dominic Waldgrave?" she whispered.

He inclined his head slightly. "Pleasure to meet you, Ada."

All at once, the orchestra blared the opening chords of the overture. Ada felt the hairs along her spine stand on end as the lights went out and an awed hush fell over the audience. Anyone who has ever watched with stars on their eyes as, at the end of the overture, the opera curtain rises, will know how Ada felt as the riotous triumph that is Mozart's _Die Zaubeflöte_ unfolded before her.

So enraptured was Ada that she failed to notice that five burly, leather-clad men entered just after the lights went out, and took their seats near the back. Dominic Waldgrave, on the other hand, did notice, in fact, he had been expecting them. Five minutes to the end of the first act (by his estimation), he whispered against Ada's ear:

"My dear – no, keep staring straight ahead – now, listen very closely. When I say the word, I want you to leave your seat and, slowly, make your way towards the orchestra pit." He regarded her fearful profile for a moment; Ada's eyes were wide and glazed, and she clutched the armrests so tightly, her knuckles were white. "I need you to trust me, Ada," he said softly.

Ada did her best not to panic as the curtain fell. She did her best not to panic as the audience rose, roaring its approval. She did her best not to panic as Dominic Waldgrave lightly touched a reassuring hand to her elbow. "_Now_."

In the hubbub of intermission, Ada had to force her way through the crowd towards the front. The lights had come on again, and knots of smartly dressed opera-goers made their lackadaisical ways towards the entrance. Ada squirmed between them as she went, not bothering to apologize, her gaze fixed on the orchestra pit, her crumpled program clutched in her clammy hand.

The conductor, blotting his brow with a red speckled handkerchief, was engaged in cheerful conversation with the woodwinds. "Ada," Dominic Waldgrave muttered behind her, "_jump_." The oboist was the first to notice the intruders.

"Hey, you," he said in a thick Brooklyn accent. "You're not allowed down here, hey, Mickey," he called to a security guard, shirking duty. But it was too late. At a word from Dominic, Ada had already swept past the chattering musicians, knocking over an unattended cello on her way, and vanished through a door in the orchestra pit leading backstage. Dominic followed closely behind her. Ada shut the door behind them – and _ran_. The crunch of splintering wood and the twang of strings told Ada that her leather-clad friends were in hot pursuit. She cringed at the sound. _I sure hope he has a spare_, she thought.

It was pandemonium backstage. Ada was comforted by Dominic's footfalls behind her as she tore through a series of narrow, twisting corridors. She passed clusters of actors, all at varying stages in the costume/make-up process, some drinking throat-coating concoctions, many warming up their voices as seamstresses and make-up artists worked on them patiently. She bumped into stage-hands yammering relentlessly into walky-talkies, nearly knocked over large pieces of set, leaped over piles of discarded costumes. Ada had been running all afternoon; her legs were ready to melt beneath her. As though sensing her thoughts, Dominic hollered, "Nearly there, Ada, out the back exit and up the fire escape."

It was a glorious night; the stars shone overhead, a refreshing breeze blew, the air was full of the sounds of gaiety. Ada climbed, higher and higher, up the fire escape, her feet pounding on the warped metal steps. Then they were on the roof, she and Dominic, and even Dominic was out of breath. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the skyline like a hawk. "Damn it, Charles, where are you?" he muttered savagely.

It was cold, up on the roof. Ada hugged herself and hopped up and down restlessly. She could see her breath in the chill autumn air. Even so, what she heard next made Ada's blood freeze in her veins. The leather-clads were on the fire escape. "Dominic. . ." she started to say, but then she registered his expression. He was smiling at something on the horizon. Ada came to peer at the point of silver, steadily approaching, that held Dominic's attention. _It's a helicopter_, the realization struck her. The leather-clads were nearing the top of the fire escape. Soon, they would be upon her again, and this time, there was nowhere to run. She looked frantically at Dominic. He paid her no heed. He just watched the approaching helicopter, now nearly above them.

A clatter of boots at the top of the fire escape grabbed his attention, however. Ada and Dominic whipped around, to see the leather-clads alighting on the roof one by one, panting slightly, but triumphant. "Gotcha." The security guard from the MoMA, now back in his real uniform, grinned humourlessly at Ada. She saw him grin. She saw him lick his lips as he approached her stridently. She saw him reach for his gun. But she didn't hear a word he said. The helicopter was directly above them, now, and the noise was deafening.

Ada squinted against the wind raised by the propellers, her hair whipping violently around her. A rope ladder was lowered from the helicopter, and the moment it was low enough to reach, Dominic grabbed onto it. Although her hands were clamped over her ears, Ada understood the meaning of his outstretched hand well enough. _Come with me, and climb._ Dominic helped Ada onto the rope ladder, and followed her up.

Suddenly, the MoMA security guard raised his gun, and fired three shots in succession. . .right at Dominic's head. Ada screamed – but Dominic was unharmed. "_Just keep climbing_," he yelled over the din. Ada had no time to be puzzled. She shimmied up the rope ladder and collapsed on the floor of the helicopter, panting furiously. A moment later, Dominic joined her in a heap on the floor. The helicopter door closed. All was quiet; the din outside was muted, and for a long moment the dominant sound in the helicopter was the sharp intakes of breath of Ada and Dominic, recovering from their narrow escape.

"Ada Mendelssohn, welcome," a Voice greeted Ada. Her head snapped up. The Voice was grave and resonating, as the very voice of God. It belonged to a man of about Dominic's age, with kind, blue eyes, and a warm smile. He was prematurely bald, what was left of his fine, red hair clinging desperately to the back of his head. And in his lap an equally orange, equally desperate ball of fur let out a piteous mew.

"_Clement!_" Ada could scarcely contain her relief as she rushed towards her beloved tabby and scooped him up in her arms.

"Yes, Clement indeed," he smiled, "and my name is Charles Xavier. You have, of course, already met my long time friend and associate, Erik Lensherr. . .or Dominic Waldgrave to you, I suppose." Ada turned to Dominic, who inclined his head, slightly.

"Pleasure to meet you, Ada," he said, more than a trace of irony in his voice.

"Those men," Ada began to chatter hysterically, "they've. . .they've been after me all day, God only knows why. . .and then, I had to buy a Knish, but they didn't have Knishes, but then Andy did, and then the napkin, and I had to find a Pollack, and I said to myself 'what's a' – " Ada's broken narrative gave way to gasping and tears.

"Calm, calm," Charles Xavier came to kneel beside her. "Just. . .breathe, for a moment, good."

"You've had a most trying day, but fear not! You're among people. . .people like _you_, now," Dominic – that is, Erik – interjected.

"You mean _Jewish_?" Ada frowned up at him, puzzled, wiping her tears on Charles' proffered handkerchief.

"No, no," Erik said impatiently, "I mean we're _mutants_, Ada. Like you."

"But I'm not a – "

"There'll be time enough for all of _that_ later, " Charles gave Erik a significant look. "Suffice it to say, that those men who were chasing you believe, as we do, that you _are_ a mutant, Ada, and that they also believe that mutants are somehow," Charles paused to weigh his words, "_dangerous_. And I'm sure you can guess what happens to people who are dangerous." He gave Ada a moment to consider this.

"Now, in light of all of this, Erik and I – "

"Unofficial leaders of a developing mutant community," Erik put in.

" – needed a sort of. . ._diversion_ so that we could go about today's business –"

"Which included rescuing you," Erik smiled.

" – without interruption from those. . .those men who were chasing you, who comprise a sort of anti-mutant group." Charles finished, looking nervously at Ada.

"A diversion? Well, I'm sure you're very busy, and so forth, but. . .said diversion could hardly have been less effective. I mean, every time I looked around, there they were, right behind –"

"Forgive me, my dear, but I'm not sure you understand," Erik looked Ada in the eye, "You see, the diversion was _you_."

A/N: Now, I'm a big believer in burying nuggets of wisdom in everything I write, and I believe, boys and girls, that the moral of Chapter One is clear: someday, a Knish might save your life. So be nice to the lowly pastry. Eat a Knish today.

Also, for maximum enjoyment of this fic, hit play on you illegally downloaded recording of _Die Zauberflöte_, the overture, just as the orchestra strikes up in the story. (Sorry for the delay in posting, by the way. My computer's been misbehaving).

Finally, any input, in terms of constructive criticism, would really be appreciated.


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